


Once Upon a Time in the Caribbean

by lasergirl



Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl





	1. Chapter 1

_**OUATIM: Once Upon A Time In The Caribbean 1/10**_  
**Title:** Once Upon a Time in the Caribbean  
**Fandom:** _OUATIM_ AU  
**Pairing:** Sands/El  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Notes:** This is a thematic/characterization transposition AU from _OUATIM_ into the wonderful world of Piracy. There's no particular timeframe, just an amalgamation of all the general unrest and territorial skirmishes that plagued the New World in its colonization. Sands is a Privateer, El is a retired pirate.

For the record, I find it funny that there are more eyepatches and fake arms in OUATIM than PotC.

**Prologue - The Legendary El Halcón**

"Legends abound of a fearsome pirate, a Spaniard who terrorized the Caribbean and plundered some of the richest treasure ships ferrying between the Spanish colonies and the motherland across the Atlantic. He took no prisoners and left only women and children alive in the ports and on the vessels he raided. It was said he painted his face with the blood of the dead, and drank what was left over. He was feared from the Spanish Main to the Americas, across the Caribbean and down to South America. He was not merely a pirate, he was The Pirate; El Halcón.

"For ten years, the seas had run red with the blood he had spilled in battle, and for ten years people cringed at the stories told about him. His ship La Carolina, it was said, could sail in the fiercest storms and the wildest gales without being torn asunder. He bedecked her rails with the dried skulls and broken swords of his defeated enemies and victims. Her figurehead was a sinuous mermaid bearing a sword in one hand and a harp in the other, her mouth painted red and her eyes blazing like coals. Stout sailors quaked in their boots at the suggestion of hearing the sounds of her harp drifting over the water, even in a pleasant calm and bright mid-morning.

"The Spanish sent their finest battleships to defend their treasure, and the British sent their Navy to protect their colonies, but no one caught the legendary Halcón, at least no one who lived long enough to brag about the deed. For a time, there was a reward offered, but the posters soon faded to grey in the salt air, and the tales of his exploits seemed to fade away."Some say El Halcón had died at sea, lashed to La Carolina's wheel, with a bullet in his heart. Some had sworn the ship was broken in at the waterline and abandoned in the shallows. The fiercest whispers were from the Merchants and Traders, who feared the disappearance a ruse to tempt their business. To this day, his whereabouts and the location of his plunder are still secrets forever lost beneath the waves."

Questions? Comments? Feedback always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - The Man In Black

The tavern was smoky and loud, and dimly-lit as all good establishments should be. It made the conducting of illegal activities a lot easier, and freed the occupants from the responsibility of having their identity known. The man in the corner, dressed all in black, was hardly visible in the gloom, except where the candle lit his face and made his dark eyes glitter. He had long dark hair, pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck. One pale hand held a thin black cigarillo, and the other was in his coat pocket. One booted foot was planted squarely against the leg of the table. There was a short, squat Spaniard seated across from him.

"I don't recall asking for a bedtime story that wouldn't frighten a five- year old," Sheldon Sands said, boredom etched in every fibre of his wiry frame. He leaned back from his companion at the small table, and lit a single match off the candle burning between them. He held the flame to the tip of cigarillo and drew in a lungful of the fragrant smoke. "So you'll excuse me if I'm not shaking in my boots. I didn't pay you to tell me ghost tales."

"It isn't a story! El Halcón is real!" The man across the table from Sands was tanned nut-brown from the sun, and had a patch over one eye. He had the air and graces of a bilge rat in its natural habitat. He clutched defensively at his mug of ale and muttered under his breath. "[No-good british cheapskate son of a whore.]"

"Now, Belini, I didn't say I wouldn't pay you," Sands reached to his right side and pulled a leather case from his overcoat pocket, "But ghost stories aren't much good unless I have a name, a place, anything." He flipped the case open and showed his companion the gleaming row of gold coins inside. Belini's remaining eye shone greedily when he saw the money.

"The last I heard, La Carolina was scuttled and sunk off Saint-Martín by a Spanish crew. Could be they were just telling tall tales." Belini reached out a moist hand to touch the gold. Sands slapped at him without taking the cigarillo from his finger. Sparking ash fluttered across the tabletop. Squeaking, Belini jerked back and sucked on his knuckles.

"You told me there had been sightings of La Carolina," Sands prompted. "Where?"

"N-no one could say for sure, but the sailors talked about a haunted cove, or she was haunting the place they'd sunk her. Again, near Saint-Martín. There's a lesser island to the North, the Eel they called it. I've never been there but it's a blasted rock most of the way through, by accounts."

"Now that you've told me this, do you see a reason why I should let you have the gold?" Sands snapped the case shut and moved to stow it back into his coat. Belini squawked and grabbed his wrist. Sands froze and glared at him. "When all it took was a flash of the stuff and you'd be willing to tell me where you raped and buried your own sister?"

Belini laughed nervously, running his tongue across his lower lip. "You wouldn't kill me for this little sum. It's not worth enough to bother killing a man over. Only a theif or a pirate would trifle with sum a small sum"

"Are you saying that my price isn't adequate?" Sands' eyes were like black coals, "Or are you insinuating that I'm a common scoundrel?"

"Oh, no, I would never insinuate something as wicked as that, Sir," and then Belini began to blubber in Spanish again, and Sands frowned in distaste as he saw an actual tear began to form in the corner of his eye.

"Shut up," he snapped. "You're wasting my time."

Belini paused in his emotional tirade as quickly as it had started. "Then you won't kill me?"

Sands cocked his head and gave a sharp half-smile. "As you say." He dropped the case to the tabletop. Belini snatched it up immediately. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

Belini nodded deferentially and, relieved to be on his way, backed away from the table before he scurried out the door.

After he was gone, Sands sighed and stabbed the cigarillo out on the table's scarred top. He tossed back the dregs of his drink and withdrew his pistol from the left-hand pocket of his coat where he'd had it trained on Belini. He uncocked the pistol and dropped it back into his pocket. He threw a few coins down to cover the tab, shrugged deeper into his coat and left the tavern through the kitchens. No one saw him go.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - A Ghost Ship Put Out To Sea

The Xenos was Sheldon Sands' ship, a lightweight vessel that proved to be very fast in the warm trade winds of the Caribbean. Sands sailed her with only the bare minimum of crew, paid the men well, and in return gained their compliance in upholding his alter-ego.

He appeared at first glance to be an eccentric nobleman, on what seemed an eternal pleasure-cruise around the chains of islands that made up the Bahamas, the Greater and Lesser Antilles. He had been to Cozumel and Barranquilla, was well-known in Caracas and Puerto Castilla. Despite his travels, he seemed to have few acquaintances, and even less true friends. He made new friends over a drink in a pub, made plans to meet again, and sailed at daybreak to yet another unknown destination.

The truth was that Sands always lied. His adventuring was nothing more than patrolling his territory, keeping an ear to the ground for rumbles of discontent and whispers of heavily-loaded treasure ships sailing from the South back to Spain. His men were vicious cutthroats and the ship was small and fast enough to go unnoticed in the dark, while the crew snuck aboard and pillaged or set the powder stores on fire.

The talk in public houses and taverns spread like wildfire, and Sands always had a ear turned to it. The Spanish fleet was worried, even with their strong Commander at the head of the fleet in the new, fast gunboat El Tiburón . A series of unfortunate accidents had befallen a number of the Spanish vessels, and wasn't that such a coincidence, when he himself had been visiting Kingstown only last week? Or was it Castríes the week before that? That was when Sands would shrug to his newly-made companion, drop a few coins onto the table and rap the wood sharply with his knuckles.

"I hope to God I'm never come across by those ruffians, they'd clean me out, ship, stores and all."

So it went, in nearly every port. Always, he asked about the pirate El Halcón. Could it be him, returned from the dead, sacking ships bound for the country that had blackly exiled him from returning? Sands made his way Northwards, until at last he reached Antigua.

In the port of St. John's, Sands found his usual dark corner in the public house and listened carefully. Conversations were like music, and could either be listened to, which he found quite boring, or conducted, which was infinitely more pleasurable.

"Word is there's someone running out of Jamaica, taking small ships with bar and coin aboard," a burly, white-haired sailor growled into his ale. "After all the rumour of unrest in the colonies, I'm hardly surprised by it. Britain wants all the Spanish gold for herself but she's too proper to right-out claim it. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a fleet of those blasted privateers running out this way. God knows there's enough gold being moved through here."

Sands pricked up his ears at this dangerous story, and slid carefully amongst the sailors, bellying into the bar for a new pint.

"Heard there was a ship gone down off Saint-Martín, full of pirate gold and they never found her," he slipped in edgewise, "You don't think those privateers are headed for it?"

"No, my boy, that ship never went down." The white-haired man laughed roughly and slapped Sands hard on the shoulder. "You wouldn't want to touch that gold aboard her, either, unless you were aiming for a quick trip to the bottom of the sea. That's pirate gold aboard her, that doesn't belong to you or me."

"Then who owns it?"

"Ahhh," the man sighed and scowled at his empty mug. "Well I'm a bit dry in the throat so it's hard to say."

"Then let me buy you a drink," Sands nodded curtly at the barkeep and after he'd been served, paid him, and he and the white-haired sailor made for the corner where Sands had been sitting. The rest of the group of sailors continued their rough talk, steering from talk of privateers and treasure to favourite whores they'd known. Sands smirked, and turned his attention to his new drinking companion.

"I never used to pay much mind to ghost tales," said the sailor, after taking a gulp of his ale and wiping his mouth with a stained sleeve. "But I never had cause to. Things haven't been right since El Halcón disappeared. Things are strange on the seas. You can't trust your own eyes. Sometimes I thought I saw his ship in the fog, you know, around the coast or across a reef. Thought it must have been the drink, maybe."

"La Carolina," Sands breathed, "Then she's afloat?"

"More like rotting on her beams," the sailor said darkly, "All those skulls around her, and her sails torn down by gulls. If El Tiburón really is looking for her, they're going to have a hell of a time getting to her." He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and looked distinctly nervous. "Here, don't go spreading these things around cause I don't know who I can rightly trust in this house, but some folks around here don't think El Halcón ever died. If he isn't dead, then that ship belongs to him, and anyone who'd go near it is daft or cursed."

Sands reached into his coat pocket for his tobacco-case and made a show of opening it. When he drew out a cigarillo, the edges of a few gold coins could be seen gleaming under the tobacco. The sailor's eyes widened at the sight. Sands stuck the cigarillo in one corner of his mouth with an air of nonchalance, and struck a match. The sulfur smoked between them for a moment.

"So if you weren't going to look for this ship," he said slyly, "Where wouldn't you be looking?"

The sailor had to take another mouthful of ale before he managed to compose himself. The lust some men had for gold was almost humourous, Sands had to admit, though he felt that this form of bribery produced excellent results. One by one, he took the coins out of the tobacco-case and made a little stack of them.

"There's a little island to the North of Saint-Martín. Most folks don't head that way because beyond it, there's only open ocean and it doesn't afford much protection from anything. Used to be a paradise but the last hurricane stripped everything green straight off the face of it and it's little more than a rock now." The sailor looked wistfully at the small pile of coins. "If I were El Halcón, that's where I'd be lying low. If anyone comes up too close on the windward side they'd get blown into the reefs at the white beach, or the rock cliffs. It'd be a fine hiding place for a man and his ship."

"What would be the best approach, then?" Sands asked pleasantly. His nimble fingers divided the pile of coins in two and pushed one half the stack across the table to the sailor. "If, say, you've got a shallow draft and the reefs don't frighten you much?"

"Are you asking for the easiest way in, or the way someone might least expect?" The sailor scowled. "Either way, if El Halcón really is alive, you wouldn't be afloat for long."

Sands narrowed his eyes and deliberately picked up a coin, twirled it in the light and put it back into his tobacco-case.

"You're not as helpful as I had thought," he suggested, glancing around the crowd at the other sailors. "Unless there was a map, or perhaps a little more suggestion on your part, I could see myself walking away with the rest of these." He took another coin off the pile and put it back into the case.

"There is no map, not of those shoals at least," the sailor sputtered as Sands lifted the third coin. "But if you'll at least give me a scrap of parchment I could show you what I mean."

"Good man," Sands grinned widely and returned the three coins to the pile. "I know there's a room upstairs we could use."

The sailor's hand was shaky with pen and ink, but Sands could see by the intricate coastline and his arrows indicating the currents that he knew far more about the island than he'd been willing to admit. Not wanting to frighten the man into making intentional mistakes, Sands remained silent until the man laid down the pen and looked up hopefully.

"That's the best I can do," he smiled, "But clearly your approach would be from this end." His stubby finger tapped a spot a few inches to the left of the island. "Tack in with the winds and drop sails between the shoals. Shallow into the beach, or deep water by the cliffs."

"And that's everything?" Sands rummaged around in his pockets looking for something.

"Aye," the sailor nodded, clearly expecting a few more coins for his troubles. "That's everything I know."

"Good." Sands drew the pistol from his pocket and shot him in the head. The sailor keeled over with a look of surprise on his face.

Whistling through his teeth, Sands rescued the map, rolled it carefully and stashed it in his coat. He turned out the sailor's pockets and retrieved the coins. He was at the door when he paused.

"Sorry about that," he said, leaning over the body. He placed two pennies on the sailor's still-open eyes. "I've got to save the gold for the men who can talk."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - What The Privateer Told The Pirate

With the wind behind him, the Xenos sailed at daybreak before Sands' transgressions at the public house were discovered. They made good time, as a light ship and a good wind does, and soon they were within sight of the island.

As islands went, it was not the most beautiful, but it could have been worse. The scars from the hurricane still showed on the higher hills and cliffs where sparse scrub was beginning to grow back. There were a few trees and little cover remaining on the leeward side of the island, as Sands could see when the ship came around the Southern point. The reefs on the Northward side were as the sailor had drawn on his hasty map, and white breakers were rolling off the tops of the shoals. There was, in all likelihood, enough depth for the Xenos to shelter in one of the many natural bays carved out of the cliffsides by the years of wave and wind. If they were not spotted, then perhaps Sands could put ashore with his proposal and find El Halcón with a minimum of disturbance or bloodshed.

"Head to the next bay, we'll drop anchor there and I'll go ashore." Sands paced the deck nervously, chewing on the end of his cigarillo. There had been no signs of habitation so far, no clue that El Halcón had ever been here. Maybe it was all just a big lie, a ruse to mislead treasure-seekers into sailing perilous waters.

The Xenos came within sight of the bay, a cove well-protected by high brown cliffs topped with stunted trees. As they rounded the point their arrival was greeted by a set of tattered sails and a bowsprit topped with a glowering mermaid.

"My god, would you look at that." Sands breathed in awe.

La Carolina was rocking gently in the protected waters of the cove, and she was definitely worse for wear. The years had not treated her kindly; most of her hemp was split and fraying, her sails were little more than ghostly tatters flailing in the breeze. Just above the waterline, there was a gaping hole, caved in by cannon-shot and adorned with ropes of seaweed. Rusty, broken swords adorned her rails and everywhere, strung through the eye-holes, were the fleshless, grey globes of human skulls.

Sands' crew, stouthearted though they were, began to mutter rough prayers and curses.

"You can't be going ashore with that," one of the crewmen said weakly. Sands turned on him with a flash of teeth, a look of pure excitement in his eyes.

"I think it'll be fascinating."

Soured by the gruesome sight, the rest of the procedure - dropping the anchor, furling the sails and securing the lines - was carried out by the crew in dead silence. Sands readied his supplies and materials, and loaded the small rowboat with the heavy purse of gold. He carried a sheathed sword on his belt, and several pistols, powder and shot. He looked like a man ready for the end of the world.

"Whatever you hear," he told the crew, "Don't come ashore. You are to stay here, keep silent and keep watch. That is all I am paying you for. If any one of you even sets foot upon the shore I will kill you. Is that understood?"

The crew nodded meekly, and some of the men shifted uncomfortably where they stood.

"Very well, then," Sands said briskly. "I shall be back before this time tomorrow."

The rowboat was lowered to the gently rocking water, and Sands rowed into shore. The faces of his crewmen looked liked the faces of the damned. He snorted to himself. Good privateers, the lot of them, but hardly any bravery in the face of a proper opponent. Sands relished the chance to pit himself against the famed Halcón, the two of them at long last face-to- face.

At the foot of the cliffs, a stout iron ring was set into the rock face, and Sands lashed the skiff to it. A narrow, steeply-carved path led up, winding as it went, towards the top of the cliff. He hefted the purse of coins and took one of the pistols from his belt. Thus armed, he began to ascend the cliff.

The climb was not as long as he had expected, though the going was slow because the path was little more than rough footholds scraped into jagged boulders. At points, Sands was forced to jump fair-sized chasms between the rocks, where beneath his feet there was only murky grey water. Spiny- backed lizards puffed and skittered away at his approach, and more than once he nearly lost his handhold. When he finally gained the top of the cliff, he was sweating and dusty, grinning, ready for the chase.

From where he stood, the ground sloped softly into a bank of small trees. He turned back to glance down at the cove and the two anchored ships it harboured. Even from this height, the overhanging rocks made them almost impossible to see unless one hung right over the edge. A few scrub trees with bright green leaves edged the rocky lip, their small round fruits littering the ground. Sands scuffed at the gravelly dirt with his hands, using the dust to dry his sweating palms. Then, pistol before him, he made his way down the slope and into the forest.

There was a narrow path of sand that led through the twisted little viney trees, and Sands got a few paces into the undergrowth before there was a rush of footsteps behind him, and a rough hand clapped over his mouth. His assailant still unseen, Sands twisted fiercely, trying to get his pistol free to shoot. With a slap, his attacker's other hand knocked the weapon from his grasp and forced him face-first to the ground.

"[What do you want with me?]" It was a man's voice, speaking Spanish. With a knee in his back, Sands grunted and tried to catch his breath. A big rock was digging into his ribs.

"I don't speak Spanish so you can stop trying to be tough," Sands sneered. "It doesn't impress me."

"Well, then." The man's voice was accented and sounded a little rusty from disuse. "Tell me - who's sending such a small ship after me? It couldn't be the British Navy."

"No, I'm not." Sands wriggled.

"Hmm." The man said. "Pirate, then?"

Sands sighed. "I'm not after your gold, I don't want your ship. I don't even care if you let me live after this, but at least hear me out."

"You're not a pirate yet you sail under no flag."

"So you did see us come in, that's fine." It was getting uncomfortable for Sands, beyond the rock in his ribs, he was sure the man was actually starting to enjoy having him in this position. "My name is Sands. Sheldon Geoffrey Sands, late of His Majesty's Service. Now I work for no-one but myself and my crew work only for me. I have a proposition for you, and there's money in it for you, but for God's sake let me get up!"

"Very well." The knee was withdrawn from Sands' spine, and the heavy body moved off him. Sands scrambled to his feet, one hand on his side.

His attacker was unarmed, dressed only in breeches and a loose white shirt. His black hair had fallen around his face, and he pushed it back with a hand that had been branded across the back. His dark eyes were crinkled at the edges; from amusement, or because of the sun, Sands couldn't tell. His tanned face and strong features betrayed his fierce Spanish bloodline.

"El Halcón, I presume?"

The man grinned widely, and bowed mockingly. "Don Eloy Halcón del Sierra, please, I am retired. Pleased to meet you, Señor Sands."

"Well, Don El- you don't mind if I call you 'El,' do you?" Sands brushed his hands down his breeches, shaking loose the twigs and dirt lodged there. "Do you have somewhere a little more civilized we can talk?"

"I have a place," El Halcón shrugged, and stopped to pick up Sands' discarded pistol. He handed it back and turned to follow the sandy path once more. "Don't touch the trees though, they are poisonous."

Sands frowned, but tucked the pistol back into his belt and followed the pirate.

El Halcón led the way down the small track through the deadly trees. When they reached the end of the path, Sands had to squint in the sudden glare. Before them was a tract of white sand, stretching across the cove. They had walked down to the second landing spot - the white beach Sands' sailor had talked about. Across the sand was a small cabin of board and canvas, and thatched in places with bundles of palm leaf.

"It isn't much," explained El Halcón, "But it's home."

Inside the cabin was bare wood and a hard-packed floor that Sands couldn't identify. When he asked El Halcón about it, the pirate smiled darkly.

"It is customary in new churches to sacrifice a bullock, and its blood is drained and spread upon the earth. When it dries, the floor is hard." He paused, eyeing his carefully-wrapped cutlass in a corner. "Of course, I had to improvise. There are no bullocks on this island."

Sands tread lightly after that. They sat on low kegs of gunpowder, at a rough-hewn table that seemed to have been dragged from a shipwreck. El offered him a drink of rum, and Sands accepted. Then he drew out the heavy purse and showed it to El Halcón.

"Let's get down to business," he said, unwrapping the purse strings and letting the gold coins clink against one another. "I need a man who can handle a ship and knows how to keep men in line. I need someone who isn't afraid of being found out, and if he is, can lie about it long enough to kill anyone he comes across."

"Now what sort of a man would this be?" El Halcón didn't bat an eye at the gold, though by the looks of his arrangements he probably could have used it. "If you think you can buy my allegiance, Señor, you are mistaken. I do not work for anyone but myself. I especially do not work for His Majesty the King of Britain."

"Oh, El," Sands laughed sharply, more a bark than an actual humour. "Believe me, I'm only working for the British Empire because they promised they wouldn't send me to Australia. Better any point of rock in the blasted Caribbean than that whole continent of desert. You're good at killing people. That's why I need you."

El raised an eyebrow at this and poured another shot of rum into his chipped mug.

"It could be you are waiting for me to accept so you can take me into Jamaica and claim the reward on my head. Why should I listen to you?"

"El Tiburón." Sands breathed. He had hoped the name would pique the pirate's interest, and though he tried hard to show it, El Halcón betrayed his own excitement. His black eyes shone dangerously.

"Ah, a flag ship of Spain," he said. "Is she full of gold?"

"More coin and bars than you or I could ever spend, and a lot more besides." Sands grinned, relieved he'd finally hooked the man into listening with both ears. "There are certain parties who would like a share of it; certain parties who shall remain nameless, on the great North American Continent. These men are fostering a revolution, or at least they mean to. Colonial land is not as safe as it once was. If the enemies of these men gain a stronger foothold, then you can be certain that life in these warmer waters will become more difficult. I am merely trying to assure that the right side gets the upper hand."

"Then you want me to take on this ship, and take its cargo." The idea seemed to appeal to El very much. "Take the gold from Spain and send it to your. these certain parties."

"If at all possible, I want you to take the ship as well," Sands added lazily, cinching the purse of gold and leaving it between them on the rough table. "Of course, the final payment depends on the successful completion of your task, but for now, I should think this might be enough to persuade you to sail with me."

"What makes you think I would sail under a British Privateer?" El's eye narrowed and the branded hand clenched into a fist. The ugly scar stood out a pale white against his tan. "The British have not been kind to pirates in their waters."

"Neither were they kind when they caught me," Sands admitted. He pulled up one sleeve to reveal a mark carved into his forearm. "But I proved to be of some service to them. So what do you say? Will you sail under my marque? I can get you a new ship in a little time."

"La Carolina," grunted El. "No other."

"Very well, then I will bring you tar and canvas. My men have a little skill."

The two men fell silent, each regarding the other. After a while Sands saw the final touches of distrust fall from El's eyes. The pirate stood up, knocked back the last mouthful of rum and grinned widely.

"You have yourself a deal, Señor Sands."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - La Carolina Gets A New Crew

Refitting La Carolina was like watching a nightmare resurrecting itself. Sands' crew were not shipbuilders by any means, but they had experience keeping a badly-damaged ship afloat long enough to reach a port. La Carolina's hull was sound below the waterline, and the shot that had ripped open her side hadn't done much structural damage to the framing beams. To fix her properly she really needed to be beached and refitted, but there wasn't time enough for extensive repairs. As it was, the crew was very nervous when Sands returned to the ship with El Halcón. They were convinced the pirate was going to slit their throats while they slept and string up their skulls on La Carolina's rails.

"Any more talk like that," Sands threatened, "And I'll have your head myself. This man is a brilliant tactician and an excellent navigator. He's more valuable to me than your bullshit. You do what he says and there'll be more gold in it for you at the end."

The crew was mildly relieved when El Halcón stipulated that he was to oversee the repairs, and no one was to lay a nail in his ship unless it was his hand that put it there. While El worked on La Carolina, Sands perched in the ropes of the Xenos and smoked. He was fascinated by this pirate, a once-bloodthirsty and violent warrior, now turning his efforts to creation. El was perched on a makeshift scaffold across the newly-patched hole, laying timbers and tar.

"If you are so intent on watching me work," El said peevishly, "you could do it from my deck. I have tools you can use."

Sands threaded his way along the gangplank bridging the water between the two ships. His footsteps were light and accurate. El, on the other hand, trod heavily on the decking of La Carolina. It was plain to see he owned the ship completely -- or was owned by it; Sands couldn't tell.

"Generally I make the plans and let someone else carry them out," Sands said, leaning over the rail to watch him at work. "I find I'm less likely to be killed that way."

"Now, is that any way for a privateer to speak?" El shouldered a board against the curve of the ship's side and drove in a few nails. Sands noticed that the branding on his left hand was also present on his palm. If he hadn't been looking at it, Sands most likely wouldn't have noticed, but it intrigued him nonetheless. "You didn't sail all this way just to watch me turn carpenter."

Sands shrugged, "You seem to be doing well for yourself."

"Oh, yes." Snorting, El let the hammer fall from his hand and swung it on its rope lanyard against the boards. "Every country with a ship is looking for me, and I'm sailing for you because of a bag of gold." The scowl on his face passed over like a thundercloud. Sands could see El Halcón would be a tough man in battle.

"I'm not stupid," Sands said lightly, "Granted, you took my offer. It's always nice to have pocket-money. But I can't be the only man who's ever come looking for you."

"Acorazado," said El, and fire burned terribly in his black eyes.

"You'll be pleased then," Sands smirked, stepping back from the rail. "He's sailing the Tiburòn."

"You didn't tell me that!" El let loose with an explosive array of curses and clambered back up the scaffolding to the deck.. Sands glanced at him and shrugged.

"I didn't have to. But it's a nice surprise, isn't it?"

"You." El Halcón stormed across the deck and grabbed Sands by the throat, thrusting him straight-armed back against the mast. His face was a mask of pure fury. "You think you own these seas, but if you think you can buy my allegiance with a pocket full of coins, you are mistaken."

Sands gagged and choked against the mast, clawing helplessly at El's wrist, which seemed as strong as iron. His feet were barely touching the rough boards of the decking. Black spots were dancing in his vision, with flashes of red burning into his skull. The face of El Halcón was impassive, unsympathetic. Sands imagined the man might almost be smiling at his situation.

Then, abruptly, El shifted his grip and let Sands fall to the deck, chest heaving. He coughed violently and finally caught his breath. El began to clamber back over the rail to his scaffolding.

"You brutal son of a bitch," Sands wiped the spittle from his chin with the back of his hand. El paused in his climb, straddling the rail, and flashed Sands a wicked grin.

"You bought me," he snapped "You'll have to live with me."

Sands intended to rush him, but as he grabbed at him, things seemed to shift and somehow El twisted one arm behind his back, pushing him forward over the rail. Sands found himself locked in a dizzying hold, staring down at the water, a rope of skulls back grinning at him.

"You need me, Señor Sands, and you know this. Do not tempt me into doing something you can't live with." The pirate's hot breath was steaming on the back of Sands' neck.. Instead of struggling, Sands let every muscle in his body go limp. El Halcón laughed heartily, and pulled him back off the rail. Sands slumped on the deck, cheeks flushed in anger and shame.

"Tell your men to work faster on the rigging." El ordered. "If I am to sail against Acorazado, I will need to first find a new crew."

It was soon dusk, and with torches burning, Sands' crew restrung the vital lines of the ship. By midnight, they were rigging the last of the spare canvas. El Halcón meant to sail to Saint-Martín the following afternoon to seek out the last of his shipmates, and from there La Carolina would sail with the Xenos, to Saint Lucia, where the Tiburòn was being loaded.

The morning dawned clear, with a fair wind to the Southeast, and a few high wisps of white clouds trailing high overhead. When Sands emerged from his cabin, he found El Halcón perched on the bowsprit of La Carolina, looking out across the pastel sea. Gingerly, he tripped across the gangplank and went aboard the grisly ship.

"My men have sworn to obey your orders as they would mine," Sands said as he came to the bow. El did not turn around, but nodded, his hands gently brushing over the carved wooden hair of the mermaid. "On pain of death, I had them promise."

"You should never promise anything you cannot be certain of," El murmured. "I promised once I would not go back to sea. Acorazado took my ship and killed my men, and for that he must pay." He stood and turned towards Sands, the wind whipping the hair away from his face. He looked, for one moment, like a bird of prey about to leap into the breeze after its prey. Sands felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine.

"We must sail now if we wish to be there by nightfall," he said.

El nodded mutely and climbed off the bowsprit. On the Xenos, a bell began to ring and the mate began to bark orders to the crew. Sands moved to cross back to his ship.

"Your men," El Halcón said, grasping his arm before Sands reached the gangplank, "Do they scare easily?"

"They sail with me," Sands wrinkled his brow in thought. "I should hope not. Why exactly?"

El said darkly, "We are the things nightmares are made of."

Sands shook off El's hand and forced a rakish grin onto his face. "Hey, you know, if you're going to get kinky, I'd say this probably isn't the time. Tide's with us, alright? I'll see you in Saint-Martín."

The pirate didn't move; his dark eyes were impassive and one hand was still half-raised from his grip on Sands' arm.

"Do not go ashore, whatever you may think," he warned, "It's best to keep away altogether."

"Right, I'll remember that."

At seven bells, the skeleton crew from the Xenos boarded La Carolina, and the two ships weighed anchor and set Eastward around the windward point of the island. From what Sands could see of El Halcón, the man knew what he was doing abord a ship; the years of isolation and island life had not seemed to diminish his skill any. His orders were forceful and precise, and he wasted no energy with unecessary fussing. Sands almost pitied his men for their commander, but as Saint-Martín came up on the horizon, the humour of the situation dulled. The real test of El Halcón's mettle was his trip ashore. If all went well, the pirate would regain his crew, and the trip Southward would begin. Within two days, Sands hoped to reach Saint Lucia and rob her blind.

Sands stood at the rail of the Xenos, his eyes on the skiff as it made its way into shore. There was a light covering of fog in the bay, untouched by the gentle winds that had sailed them there. Thankfully, La Carolina rode silently, masked by the Xenos. It would mean certain death now, if the ship were to be discovered before she'd gained her crew.

"Sir, we are sending the letters ashore now," one of Sands' men came to his elbow with an oilcloth-wrapped packet, bound up in bits of string. Sands gazed at the packet and smiled tightly.

"Very good," he said. "Be sure the messenger is aboard the ship before El Halcón returns."

"Yes, sir." The man nodded and hurried to the dinghy at the stern.. Sands turned back to watch the shoreline.

As El set ashore in the skiff, far off on the flat beach, Sands reflected that he could almost pass for a nobleman, were it not for his threadbare garments and chillingly dark demeanour. The Spanish pirate was not known for his humour, yet he had shown Sands quite clearly there was more to him than at first met the eye. His tenderness and care for La Carolina betrayed his affection for the profession; it would be an easy story for the authorities to swallow. El Halcón had returned to wage his fearsome battles against the crown ships of any nation, and God help any man who stood in his way.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - What the Privateer Didn't Tell The Pirate

El Halcón's crew was surprisingly well-behaved for such a hastily-formed bunch. They seemed to have come straight from the bowels of prisons, sewers and the gates of hell. They were dark and dangerous, the firey stuff of which proper ghost stories and legends were made. For the most part, they seemed orderly, and it became apparent that some of them had sailed with El Halcón before. There was no drunkenness or violence, and no jeering when Sands came aboard with his maps to speak with their captain.

The First Mate was a man called Quino, with close-cropped hair and the attitude of a boarhound. He watched Sands suspiciously from the ship's wheel as he and El went to conference in the captain's cabin.

"You will want a drink, of course," El said, offering a bottle of clouded rum from a niche in the wall. Sands accepted some, and raised the chipped mug skyward for a moment in toast. El returned the gesture, and they drank.

"They seem like a fine boarding party," Sands drawled, trying to erase any trace of nerves from his voice and demeanour. The liquor wasn't helping him at all, but of course the only cure for that was more of it.

"They are the loyal ones," El's black-rimmed eyes glittered as he lit a lantern hanging over the table set in the centre of the cabin. Sands spread out the maps of their route, and of Saint-Lucia. "These men would follow me into the fire should they have to. The blood they have spilled has purified them, sanctified them. I can trust them with my life."

Sands drank and cleared his throat, forcing away the rise of blood to his cheeks. It was far too soon to try tipping his hand. He tapped lightly at the port of Castríes and sighed.

"The Tiburòn will be here," he managed to say, sounding careless. "There are guards, of course, so it would be madness to attack her while she is at anchor. But two nimble ships can take her, if they are well-piloted. She will be heavily loaded and slow to maneuver. I aim to run her onto these shoals and take her while she's damaged. The reefs should pose no significant problem to us, as we are much lighter." He reached easily for the bottle of rum, and poured another liberal amount into his mug.

"And if she out-guns us?" El Halcón rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "We cannot match her firepower, and her crew will outnumber us easily."

"We even the odds," Sands told him, "Two broadsides from us and she'll be listing. The crew will be disorganized; they're sailors alright but they aren't accustomed to naval battles of our sort. Even if they manage catch one or two of our crewmen, they won't know what to do with them. Our men will slit their throats before they even have a chance to scream."

El brooded over his drink. "You don't know Acorazado," he grunted finally. He leaned forward and spread his hands flat on the table and stared at the map. The ugly scar shone across the back of his left hand. "That man would hunt you to the ends of the earth. When he cornered us, it was in poor weather, the hurricane that blew in from the North and tore everything on the island to shreds. He'd already put a shot to our rudder, so we were easy game." Pensively, he turned his hand over and curled his fingers. Sands watched the glossy welt flex in the lamplight.

"Then he caught you?"

"We were too badly crippled to run far, so we turned to fight. The wind pushed our ships together and we were boarded. The Spanish soldiers slaughtered my men with knives and short-swords and the bayonets on their rifles. They did not even think we were worthy to waste good lead shot on." The scarred hand balled into a fist and El pounded the table with it. "Acorazado had me bound to my ship's wheel and there he whipped me. When that did not break me, he drove his bayonet through my hand into the wood. I spat in his face, and he shot me." El Halcón closed his eyes and drew his fingertips lightly along the border of the map, across the back of his hand and up to the neck of his shirt. He rubbed two fingers over his breastbone. Sands caught a glimpse of an angry red scar marring the flesh beneath the shirt.

Sands bit his lip, trying to find something to say to this revelation. No words came to him

"He tried to take La Carolina in tow but she snapped the lines and we drifted away in the storm," El continued, less fiercely. "I suppose he thinks me lost at sea. I should very much like to see him again."

The cabin was silent for a moment, as Sands chewed on his thoughts. Then El laughed, and slapped the tabletop with one flat palm like a gunshot.

"You don't want to hear this," he said jovially, though Sands saw a hint of bitterness at the corners of his eyes. "Tell me again how we take the Tiburòn."

After Sands had described his plan in detail, referencing the depth charts and shoal maps around Saint-Lucia, El escorted him back to the dingy that would return him to the Xenos. The pirate crew watched Sands row back to his ship with great distrust showing on their faces. But they hadn't killed him, he reflected, and even El Halcón himself hadn't suspected a thing.

At dawn, a scant hour from Saint-Lucia, El Halcón left the helm of La Carolina and disappeared belowdecks for some time. He reappeared dressed in black and gold, with a black scarf knotted about his throat. He had painted his face like a skull, great black circles around his eyes and a slash over his mouth. A brace of pistols were strapped to his chest and a bone-handled cutlass swung at his belt. The look in his eyes was fierce and terrible.

Sands' preparations were very simple. He loaded his pistol, poured himself a drink, and prepared a flag to be run up when they sighted the Tiburòn.

With the chain of islands to Starboard, La Carolina and the Xenos crept down the coastline towards Saint-Lucia. The rising sun painted the horizon with broad gashes of red light. It glanced off the waves and against the hulls of the two ships, touching everything with crimson. For a few peaceful moments, it seemed the whole ocean was a sea of blood and mist.

It all went to hell shortly afterwards. There was a rolling boom across the water, and the unmistakeable roar of cannon-shot in flight. Before there was time to react, the first shot ripped across the bow, snapping lines and taking the jib sail with it. El Halcón roared in anger, rallying his men to the guns to return fire. Pandemonium reigned as the gunship Tiburòn plowed down on La Carolina, her cannons blazing. The acrid stink of gunpowder fogged the air.

El Halcón rallied, trying to manuver his ship around the shoal and gain deeper water and a better wind. His efforts were in vain, as the bigger vessel bore down on them. In the midst of this, the Xenos was peeling off, away from the fight. Sands ran up the white flag, and kept out of range from the battleship's long guns, and away from La Carolina. Through his spyglass, Sands could see El Halcón pacing the deck with his sword drawn, frantic with rage. The Tiburòn grew ever closer, ever larger, and finally she drew alongside the pirate vessel. The Spanish soldiers, muskets and swords at the ready, poured over the rails and engaged the crew.

The pirate crew roared, and El Halcón leaped for the first men to board. His sword flashed, hacking at the unprotected throats and breasts of his enemies, but the crew was sadly outnumbered. The Spanish force swept from stem to stern with their rifles and short-swords and Sands couldn't watch the rest; his head was reeling. In defense, he left the deck and locked himself in his cabin with a bottle of rum and waited for word from the Tiburòn and Acorazado.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Sands Pays The Price

It seemed the Xenos waited an interminable length of time amidst the cannon- fire and the awful black smoke that drifted across the water. The muzzle- flashes strobed red and orange across the inside of Sands' cabin. He paced from one wall tot he other; even rum couldn't calm his raw nerves. It had taken a will of steel for Sands to track down El Halcón, and even greater strength to negotiate with Acorazado for his own freedom. The Spanish Commander was a harsh, difficult man in conference and he had been quite unwilling to give assurances that Sands and his crew would not be harmed. This was why Sands had chosen to fly the white flag during the gun-battle, and why he'd kept such a distance. It was one of the main reasons, Sands had told himself; staying alive and afloat was by far his most important objective. But he had seen the look on El Halcón's face - his terrible anger at being betrayed - and Sands knew that image was forever scarred into his heart.

Perhaps the pirate had actually begun to trust him! Sands felt a heavy pull of guilt at this thought, though he couldn't say exactly why that was. Sands had done nothing but intrude upon his exile, and drag him off to sea again. But then, he had provided a reason and means for the repair of La Carolina. Surely El Halcón had known this was going to happen; pirates can never trust other pirates, that was their whole relationship to the rest of the world.

"Sir?" There was a hesitant rap at the doors of the cabin, "Acorazado has taken the other ship. There's a skiff coming for you."

Sands shivered but managed to compose himself. He took down his sword from its rack on the wall, and buckled it around his waist. As a last thought, he stuck a dagger in his boot-top, straightened his stock and went on-deck.

La Carolina was roped to the Tiburón with grappling hooks, her mainsail pierced with shot and her hull cracked and straining at the beams. Sands could see motionless bodies lying on deck, and a few floating in the water. He was certain very few of them were the Spanish soldiers. Small fires still burned on the decking of the pirate ship.

"Well, he certainly managed a decent job of it," Sands muttered to himself, touching his brow in a subdued salute.

The skiff brought him straight out to the Tiburón, where it lay heavy and solemn in the waves. The black eyes of gun ports started back at Sands accusingly as they drew closer, smoke still drifting from their centres. Never had the aftermath of a sea-battle been so deathly quiet. It didn't feel victorious at all.

The deck of the Spanish ship was crowded with soldiers, glaring sideways as he passed. Sullenly, Sands allowed himself to be led to the Commander's cabin. Acorazado met him at the doorway and ushered him inside.

"You have done well, as I expected you would," the Commander said, with a hard handshake and the false grin of a predator. He was a large man, bigger and heavier than El Halcón, and with very little grace at all. In the cramped cabin, his presence was very imposing. "Please, have a seat." The chair was heavy and uncomfortable, and it faced away from the door. Sands glanced uneasily around the cabin, weighing his chances. He knew there were armed guards at the door, and probably half the force would come at the Commander's call. This was not entirely the conversation he had wanted to orchestrate with Acorazado.

"So now you have what you wanted," Sands said conversationally, his heart sinking. This didn't seem so much a meeting of equals as a cat toying with its defenseless prey. "I would expect a guesture of good faith to follow. Where's my payment?"

"Ah, of course you want your gold," growled Acorazado, drawing closer and grinning coldly. The leaden feeling in Sands' stomach only intensified as the Commander continued. "I would gladly pay you for offering up El Halcón to the proper authorities. However, you are a menace to Spain and traffic to and from her colonies. You have distinctly anarchic tendencies that don't sit you in good stead with your own government. I hardly think it would be wise to simply. let you go."

Sands jumped up and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. In a flash, Acorazado had his pistol drawn to Sands' forehead.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the Commander snarled, "I would hate to mar your pretty face just yet." He called in the guards with a piercing whistle. "If you would turn in a pirate, one of your own people, might I add, I'm sure you'd be more than willing to betray me to the British forces as well. We can't be having that."

Two burly guards came in and grabbed Sands by the arms, pinning him to the hard chair. He struggled but they only held on tighter, their fingers digging deep into the flesh of his arms.

Acorazado strode to the open doors and called over to his second-in- command. "You may fire when ready, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir." The lieutenant barked orders to his gun crew as they began running out the cannon to fire upon the Xenos.

"You can't do this to me!" Sands yelled wildly. Acorazado raised a meaty hand and struck him across the face. The blow tore open Sands' cheek against his molars and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, yes I can."

The soldiers dragged Sands out onto the deck and bound his hands tightly with stiff cord. The knots dug into his wrists and made his hands go numb almost immediately. He felt like his arms were being forced from their sockets.

"String him up!" the Commander bellowed, following his captive with heavy footsteps. The deck quaked under him with the first crack of the long guns. The heavy shot tore into the unprotected flank of the Xenos, spilling timber across the water. The men on Sands' ship began to yell fiercely, attempting to return fire.

"You can't fire on my ship!" Sands raged, twisting in his bonds. The two soldiers only scowled grimly and yanked him further along the deck.

At the prow of the boat, chained against a bolted hatch, lay El Halcón. His black coat had been torn from him, and his shirt was soaked through with his own blood. There was a cut across his forehead and his right eye was swollen shut. The cannon-fire didn't stir him, even though it roared and shook the entire ship. But as Sands was hauled past, El cracked one eye open and swore gutturally and spat towards his feet. Sands flashed a brilliant grin that perverted itself into a leer.

"[Backstabbing son of a bitch,]" El grunted. He made a desperate lunge towards Sands as the guards dragged him past.

"Stay back!" Acorazado sent a booted foot swinging at the pirate, connecting solidly with his jaw. He didn't cry out, just slumped back onto the hatch, fury burning in his eyes. "Will you learn your place or do I have to whip you to teach you the same lesson over again?"

The pirate's voice was harsh and low, but Sands heard it all the same. "You can do what you will with me but you will never break me."

The soldiers lashed Sands' wrists to a rope line, and secured his feet to a ring in the deck. Trussed as he was, Sands couldn't move, not even to turn his head away from the wreckage of his ship. His men were struggling with water-buckets, trying to douse the fires burning on deck, while the ship listed crazily to port. The Xenos was taking on water, probably punctured below the waterline by the Tiburón's shot. Acorazado's sharpshooters were drawing near to the wreck in longboats, firing steadily at the crew as if they were no more than bottles lined up on a ledge. The cracks of the rifles and the cries of his men were the only sounds remaining.

"I thought we had a deal," Sands managed to grunt. Acorazado just laughed.

"There are no deals between the Spanish fleet and common pirates," he sneered. "Even if you are carrying a scrap of paper that says you are in the service of England, you are not in my favour and are therefore my enemy."

Two soldiers untied El Halcón and took him to the stern of the ship.

"Think you can swim all the way to shore, Eloy?" the Commander taunted, "With all your blood in the water, I'm sure the sharks will have a piece of you before then."

El Halcón said nothing, but steeled himself and turned blankly to face the rail. Acorazado growled, and drew his pistol.

"I should have done this a long time ago," he snarled, and fired.

Sands found himself crying out as the lead shot caught El in the back and pushed him forward, a dark red patch of blood blossoming across his shoulder. The pirate staggered at the rail for a moment, then twisted over and fell into the water with a splash. Acorazado grinned meanly as he watched El Halcón foundering. When he turned away from the rail, the look on his face could have been the devil's favourite expression.

"And now what do I do with you?" He said to Sands, his voice dripping poison. "I can't have you running about in my ocean, snapping at my heels like some worriesome spaniel. Unless you can think of some extremely wise thing to say at this point, I see no reason why you shouldn't share the same fate as your mate, there."

"The treasure." Sands said sharply, almost surprising himself at the ease with which the words came to him. "You've disposed of El Halcón, surely you'll want to get your hands on all the gold he plundered from your ships."

"I had heard of a treasure-trove," this took Acorazado by surprise, but he covered it well. "Have you seen it?"

"Yes," Sands lied "With my own eyes. Gold bars bearing the seal of Spain, chests full of coins of the realm, cut gems and fine silks; A whole cave of treasure he laid away on his island. I'm the last person in this world who knows where the cave is, and I can lead you there. Kill me, Commander, and the secret dies with me."

Acorazado snarled and raised his hand to strike Sands across the face, but the defiant spark in his eyes didn't dull. Instead, the Commander smiled cruelly and ran a thick finger along Sands' jawline.

"Not yet."

At least Sands wasn't forced to stay strung up for the duration of the voyage, but Acorazado did take the opportunity to have him locked in the brig for most of it. Sands was clapped in iron manacles and chained to a ring inside an iron cage in the belly of the ship.

"Just in case I might escape, I see?" Sands surveyed his position and found the whole thing extremely amusing. He was on a ship, in the midst of the enemy, with nowhere to go but to the bottom of the sea, and they shackled him six ways and had an armed guard standing by the whole time. The continuous rocking, and the horrible stench of the bilges had Sands feeling quite ill by the end of the voyage.

He had no plans left, no secret weapons, no hope but the tiniest sliver that he might be able to elude Acorazado somehow if they were to go ashore. As for the treasure, Sands hoped that the Spanish Commander's greed would cloud his better judgement. There was no evidence but rumours, no real proof that El Halcón had even cached a treasure trove somewhere. If he had, Sands was fairly certain the pirate wouldn't have been living on a deserted island accompanied by poisonous trees and a rotting ship.

But then, El Halcón had been a strange man. Sands didn't want to think about his fate. Acorazado had shot El without the slightest trace of remorse. A ruthless killer like that would probably want to get rid of his navigator as soon as they came within sight of the correct bay.

When Acorazado had him sent for, it was a relief to finally be up on deck in the open air again. Even, Sands reflected, if they meant to kill him directly. Sands held his manacled wrists before him, shivering in the wind though the sun was hot on the back of his neck.. To the Starboard side was the rocky shoreline of Blowing Point, on the Southernmost bay of the island. The waves were whitecapped, beating furiously against the shore. Now and again, a jet of wind and water would force its way through the porous rock. When they came around the point of the island, Sands hoped the waves would carry them onto a reef. But nothing was certain, there was no hope at all. The guards dragged him into the captain's cabin.

"You are sure this is the place?" Acorazado was poring over old maps. Sands noted that they were not as detailed as the one the late sailor had drawn, nor did they bear the shoal markings and depths as his had. He allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction, quickly erased. He pointed out a bay that he knew to be dangerously shallow. The beach was wave- created, eroded coral and seashells that tinged it white and pink. The shallows stretched out to the shoals, a defensive point El Halcón seemed to have taken into account when he erected his little cabin at the vegetation line. No ship could sail within shooting distance of the shore, or she would have her rudder and belly ripped out by the sharp coral reefs.

"Here," Sands said boldly, stabbing his finger at the beach, "is the entrance to the cave."

"Good," Acorazado had a most unusual expression on his face, halfway between pity and glee. "And I'm sorry to say, that is all the information I require." He turned to the guards who had dragged Sands into his cabin. "Hold him down." With grips like iron, the guards wrestled Sands backwards and pinned him to the map-table. Acroazado reached into his pocket and withdrew a vial of milky-white liquid.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sands tried to struggle but he was held too tightly.

"Do you know what this is?" Acorazado asked him pleasantly. Sands said nothing, but shook his head and glared at him fiercely. "The sap of the Manchineel tree. You may notice these hills are covered in them. Poisonous to any man who comes across them, as Columbus quickly discovered. The sap from the leaves will eat into your skin like an acid. But the best use I've found for it is far more unique." Slowly, Acorazado unstoppered the vial and held it over Sands' face. "This will probably hurt more than anything you've ever felt."

And then he poured the vial across the bridge of Sands' nose and the sap splashed milky-white across his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - The Falcon Stoops To Conquer

Every muscle at Sands' command jerked rigid as the liquid poured across his face. Then, it was the strangest thing. For the first few seconds, nothing. He paused, relaxed. Blinked. Acorazado's expectant face hovered over him, watching like a vulture.

"Is this supposed to hurt?" He sneered. Then his eyes started to water as an itch started burning across his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking away the sudden moisture. He tried to raise his hands to rub at his eyes, but the guards yanked him up off the table by his chained wrists. Sands stumbled to his feet, staggering off-balance into the sunlight.

"Now comes the real test of your compulsions," growled the Spanish Commander at his ear. Sands reeled, tripped over booted feet and sprawled onto a serpent coil of rope. The itching was slowly growing into a fierce burn as the sap began to burn the whites of his eyes. A guard knotted a length of rope to his manacles. One end dipped over the rail and into the waves. "If you're man enough you'll try to throw yourself overboard. Salt water may dull the burn some, but I can't guarantee it. The other option is, of course, if you throw yourself into the water, we'll drag you under the keel."

Sands screwed his eyes up against the sunlight and tried to breathe. Every man on deck was shining in a fuzzy, hot-white halo. His eyelids were starting to react now, hot and swollen to the touch; his tears seemed to be doing little against the burning. Around him he could hear the gentle creak of groaning wood, and the lap of the waves at the side of the ship. It was almost peaceful, dangerously deceptive.

"I'd rather take my chances with the barnacles," Sands spat at Acorazado.

The Commander snarled and cuffed him across the temple. Dizzy and half- blind, Sands tripped against the rail. Something was tugging at his wrists. Of course, it was the rope, those pathetic excuses for sailors were going to keel-haul him now. So Sands didn't fight the hemp weight as it dragged him inexorably over the rail and into the sea. In fact, his drowning was probably going to be a welcome death.

But things happened once he hit the water. His vision didn't clear, but his thoughts did. One hand reached for the dagger in his boot, the blade he'd secreted there before meeting Acorazado. The raw hemp rope burned the skin off his palms, and the saltwater stung in bracelets around his wrists where the manacles bit him. The blade was notched, but it sawed through the rope neatly and left him half-floating, clinging to the hull.

"There's a shoal dead ahead!" the lookout was calling from the crow's-nest, "bring her around sharp!" Men were screaming on deck, and there was the pounding of panicked footfalls far above Sands' head. The Tiburón was not a nimble vessel, though, and he knew she had no chance. With a shuddering crash, the prow of the boat raked across the coral. Her momentum carried her onto, but not completely over, the bulk of the reef. Sands could feel the ship grinding to a slow stop. His eyes were swelling terribly against the poisonous sap and the salt water; the burning felt like hot coals pressed into his eye-sockets. But it was either sink or swim, so Sands pushed off the rough hull, towards the white and green blur he hoped was the shore. It wasn't easy to swim with iron cuffs on, and he kept sinking, slapped in the face by waves.

Then the cannon started, the long-guns of the Tiburón. Panicking, Sands tried to raise his head above water, desperately trying to focus on something, anything that would help him see what was going on.

The grey and black silhouette of a ship hove into the bay, approaching from the Northern end of the island. Torches burned around her, filling the air with black smoke and the smell of death. Maybe the ship itself was on fire. Sands ducked his head below water, trying to clear his vision. The salt didn't even sting him anymore.

The Spaniards were so intent on firing against the ghost ship that they didn't see Sands crawling to shore, dragging himself over the humpbacked reefs and through the shallows. By the time he could touch bottom, he was bleeding in many places where the sharp coral had sliced through his breeches and boots. He collapsed at the surfline and tried to catch his breath. His lungs ached and his belly was full of seawater. He raised his head long enough to cast a fading gaze to the sea and saw the two ships colliding, ablaze in tongues of flame and gunpowder. The Tiburón was burning, men leaping from her into the water. The second ship plowed into her hull, igniting powder kegs. There was an violent explosion, and then, blackness.

"Get up!" There was a cold pistol at the back of his neck and waves rolling about his shoulders. "You goddamned pirate, get up before I put this shot through your neck."

Sands raised his head from the surf. It was dark. He assumed it was dark, maybe it wasn't, but his eyes were glued with grit and salt and he couldn't open them.

"Pirate?" he muttered, spitting out a mouthful of seawater and struggling to free himself. The waves had carried the beach up around him, and now half his body was cemented into the wet sand. The pistol jabbed into his throat and a strong arm yanked on the iron manacles. Sands crawled further up the beach, led by his wrists and the man with the gun. "I was pardoned, if you please."

"Ah, yes," and then Sands knew the man by the growl in his voice; Acorazado had escaped the burning ship. "Pardoned by England, perhaps, but not by Spain. We are not so easily deceived by false words and empty promises. Now you have cost me my ship, and for that you shall have to pay." The barrel of the pistol pressed up under Sands' jawline, forcing him to stand on bleeding feet.

"Have I not paid already?" Sands muttered, craning his head back. "You've sunk my ship and killed my crew. I really appreciated the poison in my eyes trick, I'll have to remember that the next time I don't want to kill someone."

"Tell me, then, Señor Sands," Acorazado surveyed Sands' burned face, pleased with his handiwork. "When would that be? Because after I shoot you, I doubt you'll get a chance to kill anyone."

"Don't you believe in reincarnation?" Sands sneered. "I'm looking forward to coming back to life and hunting you down."

"I hardly think that likely," the Commander growled. "Walk."

Sands stumbled further up the beach, prodded in the back by Acorazado's pistol. He was dizzy and staggering, his throat parched and tongue swollen from the salt water. The burning across his face had dulled to a low ache, and the cuts caused by the reef were numbed. Most unnerving of all were the bright splashes of colours that flashed across the insides of his eyelids when he turned his head. He'd thought the tropics were dazzling, but the weird patterns in his head were remisiscent of the glow in the sky over New Zealand he'd seen on his first sea-voyage to the South; the Aurora Australis. He was weaponless, his notched dagger lost to the sea, and his sword and pistol confiscated on the warship.

"Where exactly do you mean to take me?" Sands groaned, "If you're going to shoot me, then shoot me and have done with it. It's not going to make any lick of difference."

"An ounce of curiosity," said the Commander icily. "You have not died from my administration of the Manchineel, and you have not gone mad, at least not yet."

Sands laughed a terrible, grating cough at the statement. "And you have a mind to make me?"

"Indeed not," said Acorazado, "but it may not be helped. I have long had an interest in the methods of poisons and corrosives on human flesh. I have a curiosity in this respect."

"If you're so curious you should pour some into your own eyes. Better yet, drink the foul stuff."

Acorazado struck Sands across the jaw, a powerful blow that sent him to his knees, scrabbling in the dirt and reedy grass at the edge of the beach. The Commander grabbed his wrists roughly and pulled him forward.

"No more of that," he snarled. He dragged Sands against the trunk of a stout palm tree, pulling his arms around the trunk and binding his wrists together with hempen rope. The bark was cool against Sands' burning cheeks. He sighed, and pressed his forehead against the tree. The puffed-up skin on his face scraped against the bark. Another rope bound his ankles.

"Now what?" Sands shimmied in his ropes, grinding his hips against the tree trunk. "Bend me over?"

Instead of an answer, there was the icy sound of a short blade being drawn, and he jerked staight against the palm tree. Acorazado's heavy hand grabbed his hair and jerked back, exposing Sands' burned face.

"Fascinating," breathed the Commander as the chill blade traced a delicate line across one seared eyelid. The noise of skin splitting was a faint hiss in Sands' ears, then the rush and roaring of blood in his ears. He gasped when he felt the warm splash of blood down his neck. Acorazado's fingers were at his face, tugging at something; it was strange that there was no pain. The borealis glowed more fiercely against his darkened vision. His head craned back, Sands could only breathe through his clenched teeth and wish vile curses upon the Commander. A few more slices, more blood on his cheeks and throat, and Acorazado seemed to be satisfied. "The human body is a remarkable organism," he stooped and ran the dagger blade through the loose sand underfoot, wiping the blade clean of gore.

Then Sands heard footsteps that were not the Commander's, these were patient, barefoot and he probably wouldn't have heard them if he hadn't bitten his tongue and kept from crying out. But he heard them, and heard the long whine of a cutlass being drawn, and knew someone else was with them.

"What have you done to him?" The voice was low, in pain and exhausted, but Sands still recognized it. How in blazes El Halcón had managed to sail from St-Lucía back North he couldn't imagine, especially with a wounded crew and a damaged ship.

Acorazado wheeled, drawing both sword and sidearm at once. There was a brief clash of blades, and something heavy hit the ground at Sands' feet.

"No pistols," El Halcón said evenly, "Or it is not a fair fight. You have no honour, Commander, so let me teach you."

"You can teach me nothing!" Acroazado growled, and lunged.

The clash of steel-on-steel was frantic, the meeting of two well-matched and skillful enemies. El Halcón was wounded, Sands knew, and though his sword was strong, his body was not. He wriggled in the ropes that bound him to the tree, managing to loosen his hands enough that he could crouch a little. He felt round the base of the tree, knowing somewhere there must be a weapon. A stone, a sharp stick, anything would suffice.

His groping hands found the butt of Acorazado's gold-chased pistol, still warm from his grasp, lying sideways in the grass. Sands gingerly took it up, certain that the sword-clases would cover his movements.

The heavy set of footsteps, the ones sliding on the loose sand, those were Acorazado's; he wore thick leather boots and they were sodden wet with salt water. The lighter set were El Halcón's, the ones that danced on broken glass.

The hammer was hard to pull, but Sands managed. He could only hope that his aim was still true. He fired.

An indistiguishable cry came, along with a scuffle and the sorry thud of a body falling to earth. Then there was nothing but silence.

"El?" The pistol fell from Sands' hands and he sagged in his bonds.

"Señor Sands," there was a hand at his shoulder, and a dull thwack as a sword blade bit through the ropes. Sands found himself sprawling ingloriously into the dry grass. He lay there for a moment, trying to force back the nausea that came to him.

"I thought you were dead," he managed finally. Then strong arms were about his shoulders, and the wet touch of cotton soaked in seawater was at his face. El Halcón raised him to his feet and held him up while he wiped the blood from Sands' face.

"I am," said El Halcón with a twist of a smile, "And so are you."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 - Sex On The Beach

When Sands awoke, it was to a crackling small fire and the bitter scent of strange herbs cast into the flames. He was in El Halcón's cabin, wrapped in a rough wool blanket with a bundle of canvas under his head. At his stirring, a body eclipsed the heat from the fire and knelt before him.

"Sands?" El asked gently, one hand touching his cheek, "You are awake?"

For a moment, Sands had an unnatural urge to grab the pirate's scarred and and bite down, but at the first stirrings of movement, nausea seized him and he froze with a cold sweat on his brow. El Halcón's hand shifted, pressing cold, wet trails of water across his face. He felt a squirming against his cheek like a worm wriggling, and shivered.

"Awake, alive," said Sands. He shifted and a rope dug into his wrists. He frowned, feeling a swelling tight across the bridge of his nose. "And you have bound me?"

"You must forgive me for what I am about to do," El Halcón travelled to the fire and then back. There was a hiss of steam as he poured water from a kettle into an earthenware bowl.

"Forgive you?" and Sands heard the familiar clink of steel against clay as El drew a dagger from the bowl.

"Bite down," El said laconically, fitting a piece of wood between Sands' teeth. A warm weight straddled him, knees on either side of his chest, the weight of the pirate's body effectively pinning him.

Sands felt the heat from the blade before it touched the inner corner of his eye. He shuddered against El's body, but the hot blade ran around his right eyesocket delicately, scarely a hitch in its path.

"Mmph."

"Shh," said El, as he hooked one finger into Sands' eyesocket. The dagger sliced neatly to one side, then the other. The only sensation Sands had was one of pressure, a slight invasion. There was no pain from the damaged tissues; a sure sign the poison had worked in deep. As El withdrew his fingers, Sands felt the severed muscles in his eye spasm and contract, then nothing. A cool breeze seemed to breathe over him. El pressed something cool and wet in against the corner of the empty socket. In revulsion, Sands finally placed the weird squirming and gagged in the back of his throat. He spat out the hunk of wood with a sneer.

"What in the seventh circle of Hell do you think you're doing?" The damned pirate was putting leeches in his eyes!

"When explorers first encountered la mazanilla, they slept in its shade, tasted its fruit and burned its wood for fuel." El took up the knife again and the blade traced its constricted orbit around Sands' left eye. "They found their skin scarred and eyes ruined, their tongues swollen out of their mouths and their lungs burned from the inside. Your blood is poisoned." El traced one browbone with damp fingers before worming another leech into place. "It must be drawn out. If I left you this way you would be dead in a fortnight from gangrene or brain-fever."

Sands felt faint. "Why are you trying to save my life?" He winced as El's fingers dug into him again, and held his breath until they were withdrawn again. "If you let me die there's one less person who might try to kill you."

El made a strangled noise like a groan cut short, then laid aside the knife and flicked the blood clots from his fingers. After an agonizing while he seemed to find his voice again.

"I would have believed that before this day," he confessed. Then Sands felt El Halcón shrink a little, almost sheepishly, before he rolled off Sands' chest and untied his hands. "The leeches must work for a while, so it is best to lie easy,"

Sands drifted into an uneasy place between dreaming and waking. It seemed that through the aurora in his ruined eyes, he could see the grinning skulls of men long-dead, swinging from ropes across the bow of a burning ship. Atop the bowsprit was a great black figure with bloody hands and a red-stained mouth, white teeth gleaming. The eyes were fire.

Sands jerked awake as El Halcón pinned him, straddling him again to keep him still while the leeches grew fat and dropped away. When the last bloodsucker was coaxed from Sands' skin, El shifted and reached for pungent ointments and rough bandages. He worked silently, smoothing ointment into the gaping wounds and covering them with linen pads.

"Acorazado was destined to die at my hand, or so I thought," El said finally after more minutes of silence. "You killed him, and I am in your debt. I have not the power to make you whole again but I can let you live. I owe you that favour, at least."

Weakly, Sands sat up, turning his head slowly from side to side. He was still dizzy, mouth dry and gritty, but the awful numbness across his face had been replaced by the comforting pressure of the bandages.

"Blind, but not dead?" Sands shrugged, knowing his arrogance was in pitiful contrast to his health. "Are you also going to let me swim my way to freedom?"

"Wretch," El snorted in disgust, and gathered up the implements of his doctoring. There was an edge of hurt to his voice "If you think I am that cruel, then I should let you die."

Sands gathered the wool blanket about his shoulders with one hand, grateful for the fire's presence though the room was warm. To his own touch, he was cold and clammy, limbs trembling in the aftershock of severe exertion. He huddled by the fire, nearly singeing his toes at the coals. El Halcón brewed something of bitter herbs and flower-scented water and put a clay mug of it between his hands.

"How is it you are not dead," Sands broached the obvious subject with a clearing of his throat, punctuating his sentence with a sip of scalding tea, "when I saw Acorazado shoot you?"

For all his efforts, El could not disguise the weariness in his voice. "Acorazado did not expect to be followed, and he did not look for sails to the South. La Carolina can be sailed by one man, and though it was treacherous, she bore me here around the windward side of the island and we blew in against the Tiburón at the end of it. By luck alone, I feel."

"You burned her," Sands murmured. El came to the little hearth and kneeled, his arm brushing against Sands' shoulder.

"It was our time to go," he replied flatly, "I had thought we would perish together in flames. But I saw you swimming for shore and could not leave you. At least, if you live, there will be someone for whom I do not bear ill will." The pirate sighed in a sort of finality, and fell silent, leaning a little against Sands.

Behind the bandages, Sands scowled. He put a hand on El's shoulder and felt his shirt stiff with dried salt. Beneath the cloth, his skin was burning.

"If I live? What about you?" Sands' questing fingertips found the swollen weal of Acorazado's bullet wound over the curve of El's shoulder. "If you die, what do I do then?"

El chuckled, though it clearly pained him. "I shall not die from it," he muttered, "though two days ago I was not sure. I have had worse."

Sands let his hand stray along El's arm to the crook of his elbow. Beneath the skin, he could feel a pulse beating, strong and sure. No, El Halcón would not die and leave him stranded to starve. But neither could Sands be certain that the pirate was his ally. He was truly at El's mercy now, for all his tyrrany and belligerence at the start of their alliance. Sourly, he let a frown crawl across his wounded face, twisting his mouth into a snarl. He could not have forseen the events that had transpired, and now he was caught, caged like some frail bird with its wings clipped.

"Sands," El put a hand on his arm, startling Sands from his reverie. He jerked away sharply at the touch, grabbing for El's wrist and twisting it sharply. The scuffle brought Sands to his feet, crouching with his chin level with El's shoulders. He had forced El's wounded arm behind him, halfway up his back. El grunted, but didn't struggle. He even sounded amused. "So now you have me, what would you do with me?"

Sands swayed against the pirate's back; though he was swift, the movement had made him dizzy and he felt weak. He rested his forehead against El's uninjured shoulder, trying to catch his breath. His fingers loosened.

Still, El didn't move; he remained on his knees before the fire, arms relaxed and loose at his sides. Sands pushed his bandaged face in against El's neck, the way a nursing foal butted in at feeding. His lips parted and he traced a moist line across the salt-tinged skin with his tongue.

"Take you prisoner," he slurred, "turn you in for a wealth of coin at Jamaica. Live a rich man the rest of my days."

El reached up with one hand, and cupped Sands' forehead in his palm.

"Tell me, Señor Sands," the hand moved over the crown of Sands' head and down to the back of his neck. "What makes you so certain that I will surrender?" He entwined his fingers in the dark hair, taking a deliberate handful and pivoting so Sands' face was only inches from his own. There was an enigmatic smile playing across Sands' lips.

Sands gave a noise that sounded like a laugh, and grabbed hold of the fraying collar of El's shirt. The cotton moved stiffly under his fingers as he bunched it in his fists, pushing his face bluntly against El's. When the pirate failed to respond, Sands bit his chin lightly, scraping his teeth together. Unable to control it, El choked on his grunt.

They rolled sideways, El looming over Sands' frail body, his mouth pressing down with the assailing force of a rolling wave. Pinned to the rough floor, Sands had a moment to catch his breath before he felt himself responding, snarling and scratching and pushing back. El's mouth was open, his hot breath searing Sands' cheek.

"Who said anything about surrendering?" Sands muttered, craning his head back for El to nip at his throat. "I could turn you in, kicking and screaming. I only wanted the reward." The skin over Sands' ribs was hollowed out nearly to the bone, worn thin by water and sand. El climbed them to his fragile songbird collarbones, and dug in his fingers. Sands writhed with the pain, grinding his teeth against El's jawline.

"Money. Is that all you think about?" El grated, savaging Sands' half-open mouth. His tongue flickered across Sands' jaw, prompting an involuntary shiver. Sands let El lick away the leaching blood from his face, small animal noises catching in the back of his throat.

"There are other things," Sands confessed. El's hands were sliding down Sands' body, lower and lower. Sands felt himself gasp, burning where his touch lingered. "Perhaps we should have thought of this sooner." There was a touch of regret in his voice; he had tried to force it away but the overwhelming blackness gnawed at him. "I seem to recall you are most attractive when I'm angry at you."

El shut him up finally with a hard palm across his mouth, smothering the rest of Sands' complaints and any further attempts at conversation. The small fire could not warm their bones from the inside, so they sought each other out with hands and mouths. Time between them flickered and rippled, blending with the scents of smoke and sulphur. El's mouth tasted of rust; it was Sands' blood lining his throat.

Sands tore at El's shirt, and read the ladders of scars across his back with fingertips, each ancient, angry lash-mark ten seconds of adrenaline and forgotten pain. There were no more words, only half-finished utterances bridging the gaps between their shared breaths. El's touch scorched marks on Sands' pale flesh.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Sands felt he should ask for mercy, but could not bring himself to mouth it. The iron hands around his wrists were his bonds, and the warm, now predatory weight straddling him was a prison of his own design. Sands gave himself over to El, the legend of salt and shadow, an unseen demon burning with the fabled fires of hell. When El's mouth came down on him, Sands could not stop his own voice from crying out; he had not believed the man to be capable of such delicacy. The man who drank the blood of his enemies, hung their skulls as trophies; this man could makes the very tides turn with his will.

The sparks of light that burst in Sands' brain made him believe, even for a moment, that he could see again. But when he collapsed finally, sweating and shaking, his bandages were warm with blood and any strength he had possessed was drained.

"Now what will you do with me?" He trailed one hand across the scarred ridge of El's back., toying delicately around the recent bullet-wound. He could feel the faint rumble of the answering sigh, deep in his companions' chest.

"Well, there is no bounty on your head," El said, mild amusement layering his words, "So you would be no use as a source of income."

They lingered over sweeps of bare skin, reluctant to draw away from each other. Perhaps they should never part, thought Sands dizzily, as he became aware of the chill seeping across his naked back. The fire in the hearth had quivered into grey ash, forgotten and untended.

"I don't believe you," Sands said matter-of-factly, drifting very close to sleep. "I'm very good at espionage and gunplay. I'll help you hijack another ship."

The half-smile stuck on El's face, though Sands didn't see it. It was a tempting thought, taking to the seas again, but they still hadn't reached any kind of agreement by the time sleep overcame them both, and the words waiting on El's tongue were swallowed by dreams.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 - La Carolina

"A tropical paradise does not remain forever and the isle did not lay unravaged for long. When the time came for the island to be charted and added to Britain's crown - in truth, as a stone in a string of many, not its star jewel - then prospectors and map-makers plied their ropes and chains. British ships came bearing passengers, and men landed with their goats and sheep and set to scraping what meagre living they could from the unforgiving red rock. They beat back the poisonous trees and climbed into the hills.

"On the windward side of the island was a tall cliff, overlooking a deep, sheltered bay on the one hand, and an endless white beach on the other. It was there a strange monument was found; a cairn of rock and the figurehead of a ship, a mer-woman with a thunderous brow, a woman of dangerous and dark beauty, her paint stripped by wind and sea. Around her neck was a knotted length of ship-hemp bearing a single skull. It was whitened by the sun and bleached to brittleness, and the discoverers quaked to see it.

"Some rumoured it was the head of a fierce Spanish Commander, a ruthless killer of men, and that he had met his end on this island through his own evil. They said his skull had been taken by the pirate El Halcón as a trophy. Indeed, the skull had two gold doubloons forced into the eyeholes so deep that none could dislodge them. Yet the men who made the discovery were plagued with cowardice, and dared not explore further. They left the gruesome thing without so much as a backward glance and let the poison trees grow around the hill to hide it forever.

"And what happened to the famed pirate, no-one knows, for his body was never found. In later years there were tales of a sea-going man, a dark shadow who spoke very little and saw very much, and of his companion who no one seems to recall. Some say he haunts the see as a great dark bird, a winged hunter -- But that is all I know."

With these words, the blindfolded, sightless storyteller bowed his head a little, touching his brow in a small genuflection. The seafaring men, sailors of merchantships and traders, were grateful for ghost stories and lore, and they passed the slight blind man a few coins, thanking him for his tales as they departed. The storyteller smiled gently, listening through the babble of the inn-house for his companion's returning footsteps.

"Drink," said his companion as he set a mug of ale at his elbow. When he took his seat, he nudged the thin man and asked quietly, "And what story did you tell for our keep tonight?"

"Oh, you would recall it," smiled the blind man, "for it is our own."

THE END.


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